


For My Pay I Will Thee Tell

by cleverqueen



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e06 Star City 2046, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-31 23:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6491611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleverqueen/pseuds/cleverqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>For my pay I will thee tell,</em><br/>I’ll hae my lady, Liza Bell.</p><p> </p><p>Leonard Snart does not force Mick Rory to leave Star City 2046, but Mick becomes Kronos anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For My Pay I Will Thee Tell

It’s 2046, midnight in Star City. Outside is dark and windy. Inside, Mick drinks at his bar. _His bar._ He’s loud and happy and setting trashcans on fire. The flames dance close to his coat and the ashes barely cover the scent of rot.

He’s got goons who cower when he breaks a glass, then scurry to get him another drink. He’s got women vying for his attention, currency of a successful criminal. He’s running a hand down the sticky mahogany when he wonders where Len is.

Big crowds have never been Len’s thing. He likes to fade into the background, observant. Len’ll know all the exits and how long it’d take to get to one, but he won’t join in raucous karaoke. He’ll stay, though. He’ll watch. And later, he’ll feed Mick ibuprofen and water bottles in doses calibrated to the amount of alcohol in his bloodstream.

So it’s weird that Len’s not there.

“Sir!” says one of the minions. It’s a man with stringy hair and a dirt-streaked face. Mick loves the roughness in this crew, knows Len’ll scrub it out within a week so he’d better enjoy it while it lasts.

“What?” Mick snarls, grinning when the minion jumps and cowers. _This is the life._

“Me and the guys”—he motions behind him with a thumb, and wow, this is the guy who got picked to talk to the new boss. Really? Or did he draw the broken match from the box?—“we’re gonna go for a ride around the territory.”

Mick’s not gonna miss that. He wants to see his city, set a blaze on the outskirts and let the other leaders know there’s a new game in town. A game named Heat Wave.

“Where’s my friend?” His voice is a rumble, and the guy jumps again. Mick shows all his teeth and follows him to a store room where Len is cataloguing guns and dusty accounting ledgers.

He’s got two skinny kids with him in there, taking down his words like gospel when he rattles off things like “AK-47, Russian make, jammed barrel.”

Mick’s not going to take him away from his fun, and they’ll need to know what they’ve got soon. So he just gives Len’s shoulder a brief squeeze. Len reaches up, absentminded, and runs cool fingertips over Mick’s scorched-slick skin.

It’s enough contact for now. They’ll have sex on the coat later and celebrate their good fortune in finding this place.

*

They don’t have sex later.

Mick makes it back to the bar at noon the next day, sun heating his back and making everything it touches look cheap. Star City, 2046, is even better than Mick thought it was and he can’t wait to share. Also, he’s ready to get a little cold under his hot skin. They haven’t touched in half a day.

He calls for his partner. “Snart!” he yells as he walks in. The door thumps and splinters where it smacks into the wall.

Mick pauses in the bar’s main room, head cocked and listening. The wood creaking behind him is the loudest sound. The whole bar is deserted, though there are sleeping pallets on the floor. Light filters through dust mites from dirt and smoke.

One of the kids that Len had been impressing steps out from behind the bar. The— _boy? girl?_ —kid shuffles on the hardwood floors, but skips silently over the pallets. It turns big wide eyes on Mick, a street waif’s best weapon. “Mister Cold got hurt.”

Mick crouches down in front of his informant till they’re the same height. He’s not gonna talk down to the singing bird in any way. “Where is he now?”

Minions slam open the door Mick just came through. They’re laughing and smacking each other, and Mick stomps the floor with a heavy boot. “Shut up!” The kid right in front of his face doesn’t even flinch. Solid instincts there. No wonder Len had tapped the kid for more important duties than watching the adults get drunk.

His crew stumbles to a halt.

Mick repeats, “Where is he now?”

“Something pricked him during the battle last night.” The kid has precise pronunciation like a 1940s movie star. But the words aren’t telling Mick where his partner’s gone off to. A tear forms under Mick’s watchful gaze. _Nice._ “He’s dead.”

“No,” Mick whispers. It can’t be true. But the kid has turned on the wide eyes that say _I know I’m the bearer of bad news but please don’t kill me because I’m so cute._ That’s what makes him believe it. This street kid has all the right instincts, and that’s not the face of someone who thinks Mick is going to be sane. That’s the face of someone who knows exactly what to expect.

Mick never claimed to be original.

He screams his defiance to the universes. He can’t lose Len. They’ve been together for decades. They’re ice and fire, criminal and thief, Heat Wave and Captain Cold. (In this moment, still, he can’t admit lover and beloved out loud, but his heartsblood knows it’s true.)

He and Len threw away the Legends and the mission. They were making a life here. They were gonna have the perfect world. And now some turf war with people Mick has never met has taken Len away.

Mick is going to make this whole world burn.

***

Len woke up in the Waverider’s medical bay. He’d know that harsh white light and uncomfortable chair anywhere.

He’d never expected to see it again. He and Mick had cast their lot for 2046. His head hurt and his chest ached. The bright lights made him squint, and he knew Mick wasn’t there because his partner wasn’t laughing about Len squinting at everything.

Last he remembered, he’d been training up some assistants to catalogue a store room. So how did he get _here?_

“Hey,” said a gentle female voice. “It’s good to see you back.”

Kendra. He knew her. She was part of the team he’d left behind.

Len struggled to free himself from the chair, but it was designed to keep its patients in place. He levered up on one side, only to collapse against the barely padded opposite arm rest. “Where’s Mick?” He could have sounded more polite, but he was groggy and achy. Kendra would have to understand.

She said, “You’re back on the ship and everything is okay.”

Which was nice, but not what he asked. “How did I get here?” He scrubbed a hand over his prickly scalp, making sure his head was all in one place. No bumps or brain damage. Hard to be the boss who makes plans with a faulty memory.

Kendra stroked his resting arm, and Len made himself still. She was his friend. He didn’t need to pull away from the unexpected touch or punch her for daring. “We drugged you,” she said.

...which threw that whole “friend” theory into doubt.

He kept his voice even. “Who’s we?”

Kendra didn’t appear to realize anything was wrong. “We all came to get you out, so you wouldn’t be stuck in 2046. Sara used Rip’s tranq gun, and she said you’d wake up around now.” Her white teeth behind pink lips looked deceptively herbivorous. “I got the lucky shift.”

“Where’s Mick?” he asked again. If they’d knocked his partner out, Len should be there when he woke up. While Len came to consciousness cautious, Mick went straight to violence.

“Ahm...”

Len didn’t like that sound. “Gideon,” he demanded, “where’s Mick?”

Gideon was prompt in her reply, answer in full surround sound and infiltrating his brain like an undercover cop. “Mister Rory has remained in Star City in 2046.”

***

Three days pass, and Mick still burns everything he sees. He flips lighters into trashcans, and drops matches all over his body. He makes black powder bombs and fills an abandoned cement truck with gasoline.

He takes the minions with him past the edges of the territory and throws Molotovs into bank windows, letting the cash and the customers combust. He turns his heat gun on the Green Arrow and watches, mesmerized, when the flames miss his target but lick into a fertilizer truck that damn near explodes.

All he can smell is smoke and despair and his own sweat. He knows he’s coated in soot, and Len would have drawled something like, “I’m glad you’re having fun, Mick. Now go take a hot shower.” But Mick wasn’t having fun. There was no fun at all anymore.

Face flickering in the variated light, a minion whistles. He doesn’t respect the funeral pyres Mick is setting, but he’s right that the fire is beautiful. Mick is willing to be merciful.

“This is like one of the guys who came _that night_ ,” says the minion. “He was on fire too. But he didn’t attack your friend. Guess your friend does something for all you fire lovers, huh?”

Mick’s eyes water, from stinging smoke or because he is such an idiot. A guy who was on fire but hadn’t attacked Len. The bar hideout hadn’t been rushed by a rival gang. It had been those damned Legends!

He turns his head, slow and narrow-eyed to the minion who had apparently been around _that night._ “What exactly happened to my friend?”

And the story comes out like this: there had been a group of metas. One guy on fire who hovered near the door and didn’t let anyone out or in. A woman with “fuckin’ _wings_ , man” trashed anyone who got too close. An Englishman in a trench coat had cleared the center of the floor, and Len had stood up to him and told him to leave.

Len had known his attackers and told them, “We’re staying right here whether you like it or not, so you can just—” and then he’d cut off. A bloom of red sprouted around a heart-piercing needle. Len choked, open mouthed, and fell backwards under fast-acting poison.

The minion hadn’t seen where the dart came from, only that it glinted in the lamplight and the trashcan flames.

There’d been panic then. No one had wanted to fight the metas, especially not metas that took down the new boss’ second like nothing. They didn’t have any problems with these guys. So the minions had scattered and when they came back, Len’s supposedly dead body was gone.

The minion stops his informing there, nothing more to say, and edges away from Mick and the three-alarm fire that bathes them in warmth. The heat is cleansing and lovely and makes it so that Mick can _see._

He breathes deep, letting his lungs filter the particles. Savors the scent. Because Len isn’t dead. He hasn’t been killed off in some pointless gang battle.

No, he’s been _stolen._ And that’s different. You can get stolen stuff back.

***

Len made himself as indispensable as possible. If they’d thrown Mick away, they could tire of Len at any time... and they might not drop him off where he needed to be when they did it. So he planned Rip’s break ins and played therapist for Sara.

Whenever he had the chance, he’d drop off meals for the others. Never anything they liked, though, except for Jax. Jax and Martin Stein had had a very loud, very public, argument the first time Len had seen them in the same room together since his abduction. Apparently, Jax had objected to heisting their former teammate and wasn’t happy Martin had overridden him about it. Espeically since Martin had promised to pick up Mick too, so Jax claimed.

So when they returned to the Waverider in 1958 with Jax’s experimental recovery serum, Len smiled at his one non-enemy and then slumped into a padded seat on the bridge area. Everyone else crowded into the space, jostling each other and raising glasses to a mission well done.

Well done! Like they had made any progress other than alerting Vandal Savage to their presence.

Len looked off into space, not wanting to leave lest the others do something inadvisable while he was gone, but his heart wasn’t in their easy camaraderie. Hadn’t been since they’d forced him to rejoin their cause. He resigned himself to staying, doing what he had to in this prison where the guards didn’t even realize they held his cell keys.

Sara ordered Gideon to turn on the music scramble and lay her weapons on a table for cleaning. She brushed off specks of dirt or blood while the songs began. First was a “groovy” Jimi Hendrix piece that clearly came from Martin’s stash.

Ray set his suit up in the corner and left to get his screwdriver set. When he came back, “Getting’ Jiggy With It” was playing and Kendra was giggling about it.

Rip deigned to join them and had just unrolled a map onto the table beside Sara’s throwing knives when one of Mick’s songs came on. Len’s partner might have been gone, but that didn’t mean he was taking the man’s music out of the rotation. No one would recognize it as Heat Wave’s anyway. Mick liked a weird mix of metal, country, and folk music that he’d picked up from an aunt.

“This must be Stein’s,” Sara guessed about Mick’s song.

It was a folk version of “King Orfeo” about a king whose beloved is stolen by elves, and seven years later he gives them such a great gift that the elves offer him whatever he wants in thanks.

Len wasn’t much for singing when surrounded by others, but this was Mick’s song, and he wanted to keep the man’s memory alive for himself. He smirked as he belted out Orfeo’s lines of triumph over the elves. “ _For my pay I will thee tell / I’ll hae my lady, Liza Bell._ ”

The others undoubtedly thought this came from his own collection now.

None of them had mentioned Mick since that first day, and Len wasn’t going to remind them that he might have any split loyalties.

***

The first step to getting his partner back is getting to where his partner is. Mick can’t do that stuck here in Star City 2046, so he fiddles with the time pirates’ fake distress signal until he gets the attention of Rip Hunter’s Time Masters. If he’s going to need a time ship, who better to give him one?

He doesn’t care if the pirates or the Masters answer, so long as someone comes and picks him up.

The Time Masters bite first and he makes his demand. It’s simple. Good for everyone. “I want to be Kronos.” It’s good for Mick at least.

The Time Master who has come to evaluate him shakes her head like she can’t believe it. “You want to be a bounty hunter? For us?”

Mick doesn’t know why this is so hard to understand. The line between criminal and bounty hunter is thinner than TV shows would make you think. And he’s motivated. “Yes.”

“You want to hunt your own companions?”

“They _took_ something from me.” Mick knows his face is an angry slash of mouth under flaring bright eyes. He knows he looks the part of vengeful madness and that puppet masters love vengeance quests in their slaves. “I aim to get it back.” He knows his words have the ring of truth, because he means every one.

“You know you’ll cross your own time stream.”

Huh. Mick hadn’t believed that was a real thing when Rip said it. Len hadn’t seemed worried when they’d stolen that emerald, though, and if Len doesn’t worry then Mick doesn’t. Not about science or a plan once it’s in motion. “No one’s ever seen Kronos’ face,” Mick counters. “He could be anyone. I’ve already been there. He’s already been there. If Kronos isn’t me yet, I can make it happen.”

The Time Master nods her head, dark curls bobbing. “Good,” she says.

“Good,” he echoes and boards her time ship destined for the Vanishing Point and his transformation.

He’s always been talented at cutting a deal.

***

Len loitered on the Waverider’s bridge, not wanting to be alone in his previously shared quarters. That turned out to be a good move when a meeting was suddenly taking place around him. No one had bothered to inform him of it, but the others all arrived in his vicinity within one minute forty-eight seconds of each other. Not a coincidence.

While Len liked being a Legend, he wished he wasn’t trapped by the other Legends themselves.

Rip stormed onto the bridge and whirled in a circle, pulling everyone’s attention. “Gideon has found a lead on Savage.” Rip’s eyes met with everyone’s in turn, and Len had to remember not to look down and away. That would be suspicious here. “He’s in California, 1882. We’ll take him at the corral.”

It was ridiculous to hear a man with an English accent trying to be a cowboy.

Rip threw a heavy lock at Len before he strode back out. “You’ll need to practice with this,” he said.

Len didn’t need the practice. Something this big was going to give him more problems from rust than from atrophied skills. Len edged to where Jax had taken up half the bench seat near the door and handed the metal to his maybe-friend. “Let me show you,” he said, low enough to go unremarked by the others.

Except for Martin who watched them with disapproving eyes. Len was tempted to glare, but even that smacked too much of challenge against his jailers. Len had been in prisons before. He knew how to keep his head down, his mouth shut, and his potential allies close.

Sara and Ray started the weapons’ prep dance again. Len would approve—preparedness was a large part of a job’s success—but it seemed to be all they did these days.

“Hey man, I don’t need to know this.” Jax shook his head but took the lock. Good.

Kendra asked Gideon for music, and the day’s playlist began with the plucking guitar strains of “King Orfeo” from Mick’s folk music collection.

“Just in case I’m not available,” Len drawled, knowing Jax would remember that there used to be _two_ competent lock pickers on the team... and knowing Jax wouldn’t say anything about it to the others. “Besides, strong fingers are always a hit with the ladies.” He hadn’t seen the kid looking at Kendra much lately, but there’d be other birds to impress someday.

“All right. Teach me.”

This time, when the song came to Orfeo’s chance to tell the elves they owed him back his woman, Len wasn’t the only one singing. Jax, Stein, and Kendra all sang the victorious line with savage smiles on their faces. “ _For my pay I will thee tell / I’ll hae my lady, Liza Bell._ ”

Lucky Orfeo. He got to be with his beloved and to outsmart her captors.

*

Len squinted up into the noonday sun, trying to find where his quarry had gotten off to. That curiosity saved his life. A lightning strike flashed in the blue sky overhead, and Len scrambled to the side. It slammed into the dusty ground, burnt ozone steaming off it. As if Len could be nervous about fire.

He and the team had been run out of Rip’s 1882 California town and into the surrounding desert by US Marshals. Even for him that was a new one. What wasn’t new, the LEOs were both both metas.

Savage hadn’t even been there, just these meta marshals. Used to frontier justice and being the only law for miles, they were more than a match for a few Legends.

Len powered up his cold gun, letting its whine reassure him.

Ray snorted and called out to the group. “Rip should’ve hired these guys.” Even in the midst of a losing fight, the man was too cheery.

Kendra launched into the air, trying to get close to the flying weather meta who’d almost cooked Len. Firestorm threw flaming balls at his scale-covered partner.

Len wasn’t sure what the scaly one’s powers were, but the marshal had a six-shooter. That was danger enough in the hands of someone competent. So he watched, waiting for his moment.

With a thump, Kendra dropped into the dirt. “He keeps changing the wind,” she explained, and Len hummed his acknowledgement like he was sympathetic.

He didn’t mention drafts and the possibility of using his cold gun to try and change things. Not for her. She wasn’t his friend. She wasn’t his crew.

She was his jailer, and that was a whole different universe.

_Shhh-thump._

The scaly meta croaked a wordless call to his partner in the air. The other marshal understood his friend’s concerns and called down, “There’s a metal man a-comin’.”

 _Shhh-thump._  A scraggly tree went up in splinters.

Len had heard that sound before. Kronos’ gun. Capable of hunting game through time and space.

“Sara!” Rip sprinted across the dust to where he’d apparently left his assassin. “You have to deal with Kronos before he gets a chance to harm us.”

Once upon a time, Sara would have resisted the idea of being Rip’s killing machine. Len had helped her with that in Russia. But that was before. Now she surged forward with a knife in her hand.

Knife versus gun? Kronos could take her down before she got close.

Len narrowed evaluative eyes at the hovering marshal. He and Mick had once had a plan for dealing with weather metas. Their lightning powers could be taken out by a cold front from above. With Len’s cold gun and the fact that Mardon tended to fly low, he and Mick had practiced. Just in case.

Len was lighter, and Mick was stronger. So Mick would help him launch into the sky, getting above the weather controller.

Len just needed a spring board to get up there. He was out of trees, though.

_Shhh-thump._

Sara was still running. Kronos had his back to her, firing up at the weather meta. He got a lightning bolt to the ground beside him for his troubles.

Sara stopped, confused wrinkle on her brow.

Kendra rolled off the ground to re-enter the fray against the scaly marshal. Rip waved his gun around without ever aiming at anything.

Kronos kept firing at the floating marshal, even though it continued not to work. His arms were braced, and his knees bent at an angle that, while not ideal, was acceptable for getting Len up to the right height.

Using Kronos as a platform was no worse than using another of his jailers.

Len zipped his parka all the way, clutched his cold gun, and took off at a dead run. His right foot pushed against the dirt. His left connected solidly with the front of Kronos’ thigh, and he popped up higher to drive his right foot down again into Kronos’ upper back.

As if they’d done it a million times before, Kronos helped him along, adding extra pressure to get that extra height into Len’s last jump.

Len did a somersault in the air. “Firestorm!” he yelled. Because he was going to need a way down, and he’d rather take his chances being singed by a partial non-enemy rather than count on Hawkgirl.

He reached the apex of his flight, above the meta and horizontal to the ground. Squinting an eye, he took aim. Fired.

The meta froze and dropped to the ground like an ice sculpture.

Len’s stomach pushed against his spine as he fell. Too fast. Too alone. “Jax!” he called for his ally, half of Firestorm, but better than none.

Melting hot hands snatched him out of his fall, and he landed with char on his sleeves. Intact.

Kronos stood over the unconscious scaled meta, shoulders angled at Rip.

It was a bit anticlimactic really. But maybe that was the point. The Legends were nothing alone. They needed their own bounty hunter to beat their opponents. Was it a pity fight? (These would be great lines to say out loud to amuse his friends, to impress his crew, to unnerve an opponent. But the Legends were none of these things.)

“I’ve got something for you,” Kronos said in a synthesized buzz. Since his gun was lowered, death wasn’t what he offered as a present.

Len hadn’t even known Kronos could talk, much less that he might want to negotiate.

Rip tilted his head, brown hair falling in his eyes. He’d get killed in prison with hair like that. It made too good of a handle. “Oh?”

The other Legends circled around the pair, as if they could hold them within the ring. Fools. Kronos had already proven to be slippery. Volatile.

“It’s a list,” Kronos said. “All the places Savage is gonna be from 1750 through 2050. It took me 600 years to compile.”

Rip choked, and Len didn’t blame him for it. With something like that, Savage was theirs for the taking. “What will it cost me?” he asked, cautious as he should be. In Len’s experience an offer “too good to refuse” was one you really didn’t want to take.

Kronos raised a gloved hand to the side of his helmet, flicking a catch on the side. “For my pay I will thee tell,” he buzzed.

Kendra gasped at the words.

And Len should have known. He should have known the second he’d decided to use the man as a springboard. His heart beat faster, and his sun-pinked skin went tight and hopeful.

It couldn’t really be. Could it? _Please please please._

Another catch released and the helmet came off. The bald and craggy head had no scars, but it was definitely Mick. Len’s Mick.

Len’s breath caught and he started forward, hoping and knowing.

“I’ll be taking my partner now,” Mick said.

Rip nodded like this was a simple request at a garden party. “Of course.”

Len made himself saunter casually. He hoisted his cold gun across his right shoulder, and saw Mick do the same across his left so that when they stood side by side they’d be wearing a triangular collar of danger.

Len met Rip’s gaze, but he was talking to his partner when he drawled, “Took you 600 years to plan a prison break without me.”

Behind them, Ray whispered, “Prison break?” His whispers weren’t very quiet.

Len twisted to look at his former jailers and Jax. “If you’re ever in Central City.” He made a hand gesture that Jax would understand.

Mick did too. “Safehouse 5?”

“I fireproofed it for you before we left,” he said. And it had all his lock picking tools. Jax could use some refinement if he wanted to leave these mopes behind and join up with an outfit that respected its members.

***

Mick can barely believe it. It’s 1882 and he’s got Len in his arms, in his ship. He takes that kiss he didn’t in 2046. He remembers Len as cold, but their lips are so hot against each other he’s expecting steam to rise. He gives it more wet, tongue pushing out of his mouth and into his partner’s. He never wants to be alone inside his own body again, not if he can be one with Len, merged with Len. They don’t belong apart.

Mick grabs and pulls and pushes. He wants all of Len’s skin on his. Wants to climb into it and under it. Len takes just as much, just as hard, and Mick knows he’ll have fingerprint bruises where his scars should be. Nails pierce his skin, releasing rivulets of hot blood and getting a piece of Len inside him.

It’s messy and rough and romantic as hell for all that it hurts.

Len pulls his face free. “I missed you,” he growls before he bites into Mick’s mouth again.

When he drags teeth down the straining cords in Mick’s neck, Mick says, “Nothing will ever keep me away from you.”

It’s stalkerish and creepy and perfectly true. They grin at each other, blood on their lips and skin in their teeth. “I want to see this Savage thing through,” Len admits.

“I think I’ve forgotten how to be normal... and your age,” Mick rejoins.

Later, with semen and blood and sweat stinking up the ship’s tiny bridge, they agree to take a break together, steal a few pretty baubles in 1882. They need to get used to each other again.

For once, Mick is the voice of reason—at least, he thinks it’s “for once;” that’s how he remembers it. “We can’t take nothing that isn’t supposed to be missing.” Mick has a job as Kronos right now, and he needs to be good at it so he’ll be allowed to be Kronos in the now and in the before and in the future. If he can’t be Kronos, he can’t get Len.

Plus, the Time Masters let him set their enemies on fire. Being on their leash isn’t so bad.

Len says, “We’ll figure out how to be us before we try seeing our friends.” He doesn’t mean the Legends. “We can pick up Lisa when you’re ready for company.”

They kiss and stroke one another on the ship’s floor, gentler now. Len’s fingers play with the absent edges of Mick’s missing scars. Mick breathes in his sweat and re-memorizes the prickle of his close-shorn hair. Every time Mick starts to fall asleep, he thumps his toes against the metal floor until the sound and the scrape force him fully awake. He can’t bear the thought of waking up to Len being gone again.

He can’t take Len for granted.

From above, like a criminal saint, Gideon suggests they steal the Summer House Fire Opal. Mick likes fire opals, of course, and Len has never even heard of the SHFO, so clearly it’s not around in 2016.

That night, they hold hands while they read newspapers and plot their first dual action for months or centuries.

**Author's Note:**

> Emily Smith’s “King Orfeo” is my favorite musical version of this age-old tale. Visit [YouTube](https://youtu.be/c3Sy4R-yzVk) to hear the whole thing.
> 
> Say “hi” on [tumblr](http://cleverqueen.tumblr.com)?


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